Too Late But Thanks Anyway
by CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen
Summary: Spoilers for His Last Vow. Molly knows her place in the world and she's okay with it. Oddly enough it's her two greatest disappointments, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty that help her as she figures out exactly who she is and what led her up to this point.


**Just something bouncing around that I found half finished and decided to well...finish. Sorry about lack of updates. I'm actually sick right now. Ugggghhhhhh. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.**

Molly thought it strange that for a genius, Sherlock Holmes was probably the most clueless man she ever had the pleasure of knowing. And yes, it was a pleasure for the most part, save some of her more embarrassing moments that she realized were not really her fault at all. She liked him, genuinely liked him, found him brilliant and almost above the social normality that only served to tell Molly that she remained invisible to the rest of the world and that was her role. Before, when she was younger and growing up, she had a few of her own delusions of grandeur, but they slowly faded along with a number of realizations age, by age.

At the age of four, Molly discovered that Santa Claus was really her father.

In the middle of her sixth year of existence, she went to her first day of school and discovered that the other kids didn't like the way she played, and some didn't even know how to read while she was already reading _The Wizard of Oz._

At seven, Molly learned that there are people that like hurting others.

When she was nine, her mother died in a car accident and she learned life isn't fair.

Molly figured out that Nina Green wasn't her friend when she was eleven and overheard her talking about her strangeness.

At thirteen, Molly learned that first kisses aren't like those in the movies—she doesn't even remember his name now.

When Molly was fifteen, she gained the unfortunate nickname "Mousy Molly"

As soon as she hit sixteen, it was like she was never there, even as her father was fading, only she could see him, because he thought she wasn't there.

Eighteen: she started university and discovered that being a small fish in a small pond simply means you're nonexistent in the ocean.

When she hit twenty-five, she learned that corpses made better company than people.

At twenty-eight, she discovered the most extraordinary man ever to exist (in her humble mousy opinion)

At thirty-one, she dated a psychopath.

At thirty-two, she helped a sociopath fake his death.

And that last detail was what brought Molly here, sitting on her sofa, surprising calm as she stared back at the man across from her. James Moriarty—he was no longer Jim to her, bloody Jim—simply grinned.

"It won't occur to him." Molly muttered, feeling rather detached from the situation at a whole. Maybe it was because she knew that whatever would happen would inevitably happen, and acting like a sniveling child about it wouldn't matter one bit.

"You—I overlooked you. Who would have thought you would help him? He was supposed to die after all but Miss Mousy Molly got in the way. I don't wish to make the same mistake again. Any suggestions? Should I simply get rid of you right now?"

"If you wanted to, you would have already." Molly blurted out.

James Moriarty blinked, "I don't remember this about you. You stammer, you stumble, you're absolutely afraid of other people yet you want to be near them. You have a habit of liking people who hurt you. That's a bit of a nasty one if you ask me."

"But I'm not asking."

"You sit in your flat and watch Glee on weekends, have an incredibly predictable schedule and nature, and you aren't special in any way, shape , or form. But I know Sherlock, and I know sentiment. He'll come."

"No. no he won't." Molly asserted, slumping back in her chair, "So you might as well leave or go on and kill me."

"Don't try to be brave, Molly, it doesn't suit you."

"What does then? Please inform me, what makes me suitable to a psychopath? I'll have to be sure to avoid it from now on." The words just kept spilling from her lips, the invisible lock that seemed to be on her mouth even since she was little being cracked open, "I'm not afraid of you, I'm not really afraid of anyone. I'm just waiting for this all to be over and done with so that I can either be dead, and hopefully be nonexistent or in heaven or reincarnated into a cat or whatever, I dunno or I can sit back and watch a few episodes of Doctor Who, and maybe drink a couple glasses of wine. You are the single most irritating person I have ever met, and that doesn't even cover what I have to say about you using me in order to get to Sherlock. I'm not a tool, I'm a person. I'm not a toy, I'm a person, and I am not a bloody mouse! I am a human being! So either kill me now or _fuck off."_

"Oh ho-ho you've got a bite now. Maybe I should just remind you how pathetic it is—"

"I am not pathetic. You are. I'd rather be a mouse than be you. You're nothing. You will always be nothing."

"And what is Sherlock then?"

"He's certainly something."

"We are the same—"

"The difference is, while you are simply trying to alleviate boredom, Sherlock is using his talents in order to actually help people—he solves puzzles to help people. You just destroy things. So…are you going to kill me, or prove me wrong? It would be absolutely horrid if poor little Mousy Molly actually predicts what you're going to do next, isn't it? You're going to kill me or kidnap me or make me some silly piece of the game, aren't you? That's what's going to happen."

Moriarty's face morphed into something twisted and wicked. She had never really seen it before, the true extent of his insanity in the flesh, but it didn't deter her from the unfamiliar surge of confidence she had. There was only so much that the man could do to her and it would only be able to harm her very human, already delicate body. She could become another statistic, another body lying on a cold slab with a sympathetic but systematic doctor much like Molly herself standing over her, ready to discover how, precisely, Moriarty tried and failed to scar her. John would be sad Sherlock would be…Sherlock, and then there was the matter of her cat. Slowly he approached her, straddling her, putting a hand on her throat and stroking it before a knife emerged. Molly tilted her head, baring her neck to the man before her, and by default; the blade.

"Sherlock's not coming." Molly murmured.

"Sherlock's not coming." Moriarty repeated.

Another moment of silence passes. Molly sees herself at nine, reading a book while all the other children were playing and again at fifteen, only a few feet from that same spot, reading a book when she received her first kiss—the real sort, the sort that matters—the sort that she could remember. There was that engagement, which they were sharp enough to break off before any hearts were broken. Her heart's never really been broken before; she never let it out to break, so why should that be any different? She sees a boring life—a pathetic one by many people's standards, passing before her eyes and realizes that she made no lasting impact, but no one did, not really. Everyone would be forgotten, cremated or rotting in the ground, someday there would not be a person that remembers her, and how she was. But the difference was that she already knew this from the very beginning. She wasn't like Sherlock or Moriarty, straining to become a god among humans, deluding herself into believing that she was special in any way, she simply was Molly Hooper, and she had led a life that was full of disappointment, but also great moments that she would cherish.

In that instant, she realized she wanted more of those.

The blade was gone from her neck; she grasped it and shoved it through Moriarty's chin, cutting through the soft tissue and into his mouth. Blood dripped on her shirt as he still loomed over her, his eyes bulging and for a moment—for one insane moment—Molly abandoned every ounce of scientific knowledge and thought that maybe he really couldn't die. Then as his eyes rolled back, she ripped out the knife and pushed him off of her. Because if there was one thing her simple boring life taught her was that she was so much more than silly men like Moriarty and Sherlock would ever see. She was invisible, but meant to be invisible and she was not, and will never be pathetic.

Molly Hooper was not miserable. She was precisely who and what she wanted to be, and even as she poked at the blood marring her nice white shirt—it was a shame she was wearing that, really it was—and the police were swarming around her, gaining her statement, a for once completely bewildered Sherlock not too far behind, she was still happy, she was still optimistic, and still pretty damn normal for an intelligent woman that cut up dead bodies. Being normal wasn't a detriment, not at all, it meant that she was a survivor. Molly Hooper was not a tragedy, she was a person poking through life—and now she could fearlessly.

Thirty minutes later, Molly had changed shirts and settled on her blood stained sofa with a glass of vino. She sat, sipping the wine, watching bored as Sherlock paced back and forth before her. She supposed he didn't think things would end so easily, that it would be Mousy Molly and not the Great Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes to end Moriarty. Finally he settled down in front of her, a hand running through his curls as he fished for the right words. There were no right words. Molly thought of informing him of this, but then thought better of it. If he decided to brave sentiment or whatever it was he was having a difficult time grasping without John, then he was walking into deep water full of currents on his own. She couldn't rescue him before he was drowning.

"I honestly didn't think he would come after you."

"Because I don't count."

Sherlock's head snapped up, "No, no of course not—"

"It's okay, Sherlock. I don't count. I don't want to count." Molly finished off her glass and poured another, "If counting leads to blood stains on my sofa, then…I don't think I want to."

"You don't mean that." He seemed to be pretty much arguing with himself after he said that, and upon realizing she was noticing, ducked his head down so that she couldn't see, "No…you're Molly."

"Have you ever tried to think about what that even means?" Before he could answer, she cut him off, "You know a collection of facts, not me. I'm a person you use, and I've allowed you to. I—I don't want to have to be afraid of some psychopath trying to kill me to get to you. I like my nice quiet life and you're brilliant, ever so brilliant but—but being your friend is hard sometimes…so if you don't find me as interesting, or don't like me as much, or only want to use me, tell me now. I mean NOW, Sherlock. Otherwise, it's not worth it." Once Molly had seized this bravery, she knew she wouldn't relinquish it so easily.

Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath, and for a moment, silence fell in her flat once more. Molly sighed, waiting for his response, "Molly, I never wished for you to be in any danger."

"Noted."

"And I've never been particularly good at sentiment."

"Sherlock, I already know this." Molly was getting impatient with him; well impatient and a little tipsy. A nice bath would suit her well once he left. That is if she could finally kick him out and leave her alone. That's what she wanted; she wanted to be alone.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, and I want you to remain the same…exactly where you are."

"It's impossible for me to stay exactly the same." Molly replied easily, "So what am I to you? Define me. Right now."

"You're my pathologist."

"And?"

"A…a most trusted friend."

Molly smiled, pouring herself a third glass of wine, "To think, all this time, that's all I wanted to hear. I should have asked much earlier. Would you like some?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No."

Molly giggled, "Thank you, Sherlock."

"For what?" Sherlock seemed perfectly puzzled and Molly absolutely loved it.

"For not saving me."


End file.
